


put your gold where your mouth is

by technicolourbeat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animagus, Body Hair, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Doggy Style, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Hung Harry Potter, M/M, Nifflers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Princess and the Frog elements, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolourbeat/pseuds/technicolourbeat
Summary: When the niffler Draco takes a liking to transforms into a naked Harry Potter, what else is he to do except shag the saviour of the wizarding world?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 27
Kudos: 1030





	put your gold where your mouth is

**Author's Note:**

> i made a post on my old tumblr (which i no longer have access to rip) joking about harry’s affinity for shiny things (cough, draco’s hair) where i referred to him as a niffler and someone commented that it was an “interesting animagus theory." me being the obsessive idiot i am Clung to this idea which evolved into well, this. title is a play on the idiom to “put your money where your mouth is”
> 
> writing one shots like this honestly isn't my thing but i'm struggling to decide on what my next long fic will be about so,, have this lmao

When Draco had agreed to attend yet another one of his father’s attempts at reclimbing the ranks of wizarding society, he had hoped that this one would at least be slightly more interesting than the last. Instead, he has been treated to the same sights and sounds of well-decorated halls and overtly fake laughter from various guests. Why he had expected anything different, he will never know, but Draco considers himself a bit of an optimist despite everything. And as an optimist, he considers his only saving grace in all of this to be the prospect of seeing Potter again.

Although Draco and Potter are no longer enemies, Draco still wouldn’t consider him a friend. Regardless of whatever salacious stories Pansy has concocted within that poor, depraved mind of hers, Draco has only ever spoken to Potter briefly during his visits to the Ministry. As one of the main potions suppliers to the Ministry, Draco often drops by to speak with Shacklebolt about what is needed and when. Potter, being an Auror, always just so happens to cross paths with him.

During one particular visit, Pansy had accompanied him as they were due for a lunch date together. Potter had been there, as usual, to greet him with that dazzling smile of his and equally dazzling green eyes. Draco does not even remember what they had spoken about, only that Potter had complimented his robes for the day and Pansy later claimed that Potter had been undressing him with his eyes right there. She was scandalized by the blatant eye-fucking, horrified that Potter had been positively crude in his efforts to render Draco nude right there in the middle of the atrium.

Of course, Draco denied her claims, dismissing them as nothing but an overactive imagination on her part. Except, Potter had grown rather handsomely over the years. Seven years without the burden of a Dark Lord trying to kill you at every turn had done fantastically for Potter’s overall health. His physique, which had once been so skinny and weak, has now evolved into well-developed arms, an impressive back, and trim waist. None of which even accounted for the sight that is Potter’s thighs, thick and strong and certainly powerful enough to squeeze Draco into a pulp if asked.

Truly, it wouldn’t hurt if Potter were ever actually interested in him.

Strong body and beautiful appearance aside, Potter is also incessantly kind. Always going out of his way to say hello to Draco and greet him when he visits the Ministry, always kind enough to offer to walk him back to the floo after meeting with Shacklebolt. Potter is also kind enough to allow Lucius Malfoy to throw a ball in his name to support the charity for war orphans Potter founded at the end of the war. Draco knows that his mother’s good rapport with Potter is to thank for the opportunity, allowing them to remain as unscathed as a family possibly could after serving under the tyrannical madness that was Voldemort.

Despite being the guest of honor, Draco has not seen Potter once since his speech at the start of the ball. Draco had thought that Potter would stick around his friends, at least, but in the countless times Draco had seen Granger and Weasley, they had been sorely missing their usual third companion. Last Draco had seen, the couple had been furiously whispering at each other and passing a bundle of fabric between themselves. Perhaps Potter had purposely left them to deal with whatever lover’s quarrel they seem to be having.

“Still looking for our saviour?”

Draco turns towards the voice, scowling when he sees that it is Pansy, dressed in a stunning black gown that faintly shimmers under the candlelight. She looks damn good in her dress, sharp eyeliner and bold red lipstick complimenting the entire ensemble. What doesn’t look good, however, is the smug look on her face as she settles into the vacant spot beside Draco, flute of champagne held loosely in her hand.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco answers. His eyes sweep over the crowd once again, hoping to catch that mess of raven hair.

“Right,” Pansy hums. “So, that isn’t why you’ve been standing to the side looking like a twat all night?”

“You’re a twat,” Draco mumbles, but there is no heat behind his words. That draws a rather inelegant laugh from Pansy, and a bit of her drink splashes out of her glass and onto the glowing marble floor.

“I haven’t seen him all night either,” Pansy offers. With her other hand, she releases her wand to spell away the mess she has made and the puddle is gone in a second. “Just go rest, Draco. You look terrible.”

Before Draco can respond, Pansy has planted a kiss on his cheek and is gliding off in the direction of Ginny Weasley. Out of all the alliances to have come out of the war, he never would have expected those two to be anything but cordial with one another. It is a strange friendship, but Draco can understand why it works so well. Having gotten to know Ginevra a bit over the years as well, Draco admits that their personalities work in some way.

With Pansy gone, Draco is once again standing alone and feeling miserable. This ball had not gone the way he had hoped it would. Not that he would ever admit this to anyone, especially to Pansy, but perhaps he had hoped for a chance to dance with Potter. In fact, he had hoped for a chance at anything. Anything to rid themselves of their flimsy unspoken truth and maybe delve into something more.

After about a minute of indecision, Draco decides to patrol the ballroom once more, just in case he had happened to miss Potter the first thirty times. He recognizes most of those attending, the typical high-ranking Ministry officials that have fallen prey to his father’s incessant brown nosing. There are a few new faces as well, likely the ones who are only attending because of Harry Potter’s affiliation with the event. However, none of these people turn out to be Potter. By the time he has realized that all hope is lost, his mother and father spot him from a distance, beckoning him over.

“Mother, father,” Draco greets them once he is close enough.

“What are you doing just milling about?” Lucius asks, ever the one to cut right to the point. “You should be talking with the other guests.”

_Making connections,_ Draco corrects. In lieu of a snappy comment, Draco answers, “Yes, well, I don’t think I’m fit for company right now.”

“Dear,” Narcissa cuts in, placing a cold hand on Draco’s arm. “This could be your chance to find a suitor.”

“Yes,” Lucius agrees hurriedly. “Plenty of eligible pureblood bachelors here tonight. Like that young man over there, terribly smart cursebreaker.” He flourishes the cane in his hand, pointing indiscreetly at the rather well-built man just a little ways away from them.

A suitor, of course. Only Draco’s parents could hold a ball with numerous intentions, all befitting their own agendas. Irritation builds up within his chest, and it takes an effort to stop himself from screaming right then and there.

Before his parents can even think to steer him towards the cursebreaker, Draco announces, “Excuse me, I think I may be ill.”

He ignores the shouts of his name as he walks away, taking brisk steps out of the ballroom and up towards his room. The audacity of his parents, wanting him to take his pick of whatever pureblood male they have already pre-approved for him. It would be brilliant, Draco knows this. Just the cherry on top of everything to properly put them back onto the social mill of the wizarding world, completely free of any of the usual repercussions one might incur after spending the majority of the war supporting the losing side.

This was supposed to be _his_ night. Well, a night for the lovely orphans as well, but most importantly his night. This charity ball was meant to be the night where Draco would sweep Harry Potter off his feet and put some validity to Pansy’s ridiculous claims. Before tonight, he had fantasized of meeting Potter’s eyes from across the ballroom and drawing him near with an enticing pout on his lips, seducing him into a dance that would fluster everyone else in the room. It was a little imaginative, but Draco had hoped it would be at least slightly true.

Once inside the safety of his room, he allows his straight posture to drop, shoulders sagging as he makes his way to the en suite. It feels almost mechanical as he strips himself of his robes—wonderful, beautiful robes that he had chosen just for the occasion. He remembers Potter having complimented his burgundy robes during one visit to the Ministry, confiding in Draco that the shade is his favourite colour. It influenced Draco in his decision to wear robes of the same colour today, cut tight and cinched over his waist before flaring out.

He completely rids himself of the rest of his clothes and steps into the hot shower, muscles immediately relaxing under the warm spray. He takes his time in cleaning himself, not at all in a rush with the night still so young. The hair potions he uses are tailor-made for his hair, created solely to maintain Draco’s usual silky, white-blond hair. He purchased body washing potions from the same manufacturer, another set of specified potions that work for his skin type only. After scrubbing himself clean and rinsing himself off, he emerges from the en suite and heads back to his bedroom.

There is a clean towel waiting for him on his desk chair which he uses to dry himself off quickly. Taking advantage of his current moist state, he rubs softening creams into his skin, smoothing away the redness caused by the heat of the water. He is thorough in this, hefting a leg up onto his desk to properly apply the cream to every inch of his skin. He twists his body in the mirror to view his bum, rubbing the cream into the supple flesh.

_Truly, Potter is missing out on such a lovely arse,_ he thinks to himself.

The cream is set aside and he picks up the towel once again, using it to dry off his hair as best as he can. Typically, he would use a drying charm as a quick fix, but tonight he doesn’t bother. He saunters over to his wardrobe, hanging the towel onto the hook meant for dirty things before pulling out his black chiffon robe and donning it.

After such a relaxing shower, Draco usually takes the opportunity to have a special sort of night to himself, and this particular robe often helps to put him in the mood for such things. With the absence of Potter being woefully mourned, Draco figures he can rectify the absence himself using three friends: his fingers, his favourite dildo, and copious amounts of lube.

Just before he turns around, he hears a rustling of fabric behind him, freezing him in place. He thinks it may be a house elf, but that is impossible as they never enter Draco’s chambers unless explicitly told to. His wand is still in his dress robes that are lying on the floor of the en suite, and if he were to Summon it, it would be much too late. At such close range, the intruder could be on Draco in seconds. Carefully, he reaches for his towel again, clutching it tight into his hands.

Whirling around, Draco throws the towel out and into the direction of the noise, hoping to stun the intruder and make his escape. He pauses when he sees no one there, frowning into the darkness of his room. Then, he hears the rustling again, this time from the lump moving under the towel Draco has thrown onto his bed. Draco watches on, stunned, as a little creature scrambles out from under the white fabric, resettling itself onto Draco’s bed as though it belonged there.

Draco stares. “What the fuck?”

It is a niffler. A wee, baby little niffler that looks small enough to fit into both of Draco’s hands. The tiny creature is staring up at Draco with rapt attention, wide green eyes looking close to popping out of its head. If Draco were to give it a little squeeze, he is sure the eyes would do just that. The way it looks at Draco, green gaze so intense, is unsettling and almost… human-like. Self-conscious, Draco hugs his arms close to himself, suddenly feeling very exposed to the tiny creature.

He makes his way over to the bed with light footsteps, careful as not to startle the animal. With slow movements, he reaches over and plucks the towel from the bed, folding it and setting it aside on his nightstand. Up close, Draco can admit that the niffler is a cute little thing. The moonlight shines against its sleek, raven-black fur, looking awfully familiar though Draco cannot place why.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, I was just startled,” Draco apologizes, uncaring of how stupid he sounds talking to a creature of all things. “I don’t even know how you got in here!” He considers the idea of the niffler squeezing in when he had entered the room, or perhaps there are secret passages within the Manor that even Draco is not aware of.

He scoops the niffler up into his arms with surprising tenderness before seating himself on his bed. “For all I know, you could be the niffler of some poor cursebreaker downstairs. Probably the one my insufferable father wants me to marry.” The niffler seems to not like that, squirming in his hold.

Draco further observes the niffler and its dark fur, noticing that some tufts of it are thicker and almost curly towards the head. It is an unnatural trait for a niffler, as Draco had always known them to have short, smooth hair. This specific niffler has a strange mark on its forehead that looks a bit like an old wound, the crooked lines shining pink amidst the black fur. Draco rubs at the mark thoughtfully, and the niffler nuzzles its head into Draco’s hand in response.

“Oh, you’re rather cute,” Draco remarks. “If you don’t belong to anyone, I’d much like to keep you.”

Draco rearranges himself on his bed, sitting with his legs criss-crossed before setting the niffler down onto the bed by his hip. Immediately, the niffler moves, clambering onto Draco’s thighs and attempting to seat itself between Draco’s legs. Just as the niffler has begun to sniff at the edge of his robe, Draco yelps, aware of his state of near undress.

“No! Not there, you little thing!” Draco yelps, picking up the niffler before it can lift his robe. “I suppose I’ll just have to carry you instead.”

The niffler looks almost sheepish when it looks into Draco’s eyes.

“You know, you’re much nicer to talk to,” Draco confesses to it. He cradles the niffler close to his chest, fingers toying with the curlier ends of its fur. “I haven’t enjoyed a single conversation tonight.”

Not even his conversation with Pansy, who is his best friend, had been very enjoyable. In fact, it only served to remind him of what a disaster this night had ended up becoming. No Potter, and no wooing or seducing of any kind. A complete failure of a night, if you asked Draco.

Draco means it when he says he enjoys speaking to the little creature. It doesn’t interrupt him or make silly suggestions, not that Draco expects it to. But he enjoys having someone to vent his feelings to without any repercussions. He rants about his father and his attempts at pairing Draco off to the next best pureblood bachelor. It was humorous at first when his father tried getting Draco to court women. And just when Draco thought he had gotten his father off of his back by confessing his sexuality, his father merely changed courses and offered him male purebloods instead. The niffler listens to all of this, almost unblinking as it stares up at Draco, completely captivated.

“I ought to call you something,” Draco decides, absently stroking the niffler’s fur. “I don’t suppose you could tell me a name you’ll like?” The niffler shakes his head and Draco gapes. 

“A strange one, aren’t you?” he murmurs. The niffler does not respond this time and simply stares back. Draco hums thoughtfully. “You have such lovely green eyes. Like Potter.” From between Draco’s hands, the niffler tenses, soft body going rigid at the name.

Draco chalks it up to a creature being a creature, and ignores it. When he checks the time, he is surprised to find that it is already midnight, but the party can still be heard downstairs. It is barely audible, but with a trained ear, Draco can hear the soft hum of classical music from beneath his floor.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” Draco informs the niffler. “I’ll let you stay, if you wish, but do please avoid stealing anything from me. I’d hate to have to track you down.” He lifts the niffler up in his hands, all the way until they are both staring eye to eye. 

“Good night, Niffler Potter.” Draco presses a kiss to the pink scar on its forehead, smiling when he pulls away.

Then, to his horror, the little beast begins to change. At first, a great big green eye pops out of its skull before the other one follows in suit. Frightened, Draco drops the creature in between his legs just as the snout of the niffler begins to elongate into a sloping, tan nose. It must have happened in seconds, but it is practically in slow-motion before Draco’s eyes. The body continues to contort hideously until Draco realizes that the niffler is turning into a _human._

Once it finishes, he realizes that the person now in his bed is actually Harry Potter. A very _naked_ Harry Potter.

“What the actual fuck?” Draco breathes out.

Potter is on his stomach, his head placed on Draco’s thigh. Draco catches just a glimpse of Potter’s very, very tight arse before the man heaves himself up with a groan. Draco can barely think as he watches Potter settle back onto his feet, kneeling before Draco and covering his crotch with his hands. Draco briefly laments not having been able to get a peek of that.

“Er, hello, Malfoy.”

Draco then realizes that he is severely underdressed himself, and he scrambles backwards on the bed until he hits the headboard. Clutching his robes closed, he stares, all thoughts failing to form into complete ones as he looks on at Potter’s naked form. He had known from seeing Potter in his Auror uniform that the man is built. After all, he has spent the better part of the last year drooling over his now bulked up physique. But naked, completely nude, Potter is a _vision_. He is a wall of meat, all whipcord tight muscles and pecs you could bounce a sickle or two off of. In fact, Draco is fairly certain the same could be said about that tight arse as well.

“Potter,” Draco struggles to speak, trying desperately not to get lost in staring at Potter’s thick thighs before him, covered in dark hairs just the same as his chest. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Right, um.” Potter’s hands shift, and Merlin, Draco just wants to at least see how long the damn thing is. “It turns out that my animagus form is a niffler. Funny little thing, that.”

Draco then realizes very belatedly that the entire time, the niffler had been Potter. Potter had been the niffler Draco had rambled on to and cooed at. And, oh fucking _Merlin’s tits,_ he had told Harry Potter that he found his green eyes to be lovely. The more he thinks on it, the more he makes the connection. That niffler’s scar did look a bloody awful lot like Potter’s infamous lightning scar. His feelings of utter stupidity war with the overwhelming sense of mortification that runs over him, warming his body to an unbearable temperature.

“Wh-why on earth are you naked?” Draco questions, throwing a hand out to gesture at Potter. He doesn’t know why he needs to point it out, possibly to affirm that he is not just going crazy and imagining Potter naked in his bed. The man hasn’t a stitch of clothing on him, not even his usual black frame glasses.

Potter grimaces. “I haven’t exactly gotten transforming down yet. Hermione and Ron are probably worried sick about me.”

Vaguely, Draco recalls the building argument he had witnessed between Granger and Weasley earlier. At least that little mystery has now been solved. Draco simply nods, feeling rather numb as he takes in everything. When he looks back up, Potter is still sitting there, leaning back on his heels and cupping his prick with his large hands. It looks like a terribly awkward position to be in, and Draco feels as though he should be mocking by now, although the words fail him and he can only stare.

“Um,” Potter says intelligently, “you kissed me.”

Draco did not expect that.

“I kissed niffler you!” he argues, voice reaching an unimaginable pitch. 

Potter grins, as though he is sharing a silly secret on the schoolyard. “Yes, _Niffler Potter._ ”

That has Draco feeling the blood as it rushes to his face with record speed. The room is all too hot now, even if he is only scantily clad in his chiffon robe, but Potter doesn’t seem bothered at all. The git looks very well damn pleased with himself, grin unchanging, while Draco feels as though he may spontaneously combust at any moment.

Potter, it seems, has no concept of mercy. “Do you really think my eyes are lovely?” Potter presses on.

Draco has a very sudden urge to die on the spot or melt at the very least. Potter’s eyes are bright and playful, and Draco cannot look at them for any longer. He slumps back down into the soft of his pillows, tucking his knees into his body and hiding his face behind his pale hands.

“Potter! Leave me to fester in my humiliation and rot in my shame!” he bemoans. This is not how his night was meant to go! Seducing Potter was on the books, not making a complete fool of himself while Potter watched on in his animagus form.

He shuts his eyes tightly, refusing to look at Potter’s likely smug face. The quicker this goes, the faster Draco can get over his embarrassment. Potter can get dressed and find his way back down and do his inevitable mocking of how Draco Malfoy had mooned over his pretty green eyes to a sodding niffler.

“I could,” Potter says through a few chuckles, “or I could stay.”

Draco tenses, widening his fingers so he can peer through them and up at Potter’s face. He’s surprised to see sincerity there, and a flare of possible hope. Which is impressive, Draco thinks, for someone who is completely starkers. However, if anyone can manage to look genuine while nude, it should be Harry Potter. Of course it’s Harry Potter.

“You want to stay?” Draco questions, baffled.

Potter nods and bites his lip, eyes flickering down over Draco’s body. “That, and I want to fuck my tongue into that pretty hole of yours.” He tilts his head down meaningfully, gesturing down to the area between Draco’s legs.

It is then that Draco realizes that in his sitting back, he has left his arsehole on full display for the other man. If the room had been hot before, it is sweltering now and Draco feels the scarlet flush return to his cheeks again. His embarrassment at having exposed himself so blatantly is deeply overshadowed by his own desire, which flares in his gut at the buzzwords _fuck_ and _tongue_.

The hunger in Potter’s gaze is so vivid and tangible that Draco can feel it on his skin, prickling in the wake of his roving eyes. Draco wants this, has wanted this, and his whole body trembles with the need to satiate this desire.

Slow and hesitant, Draco spreads his legs entirely, fully exposing his arsehole and now half hard prick to the man before him.

“Put your gold where your mouth is, Potter.”

In a wise choice, Potter does not respond with words. Instead he surges forward to kiss Draco, pillowy lips pressed against Draco’s own soft ones. Draco has fantasized about this for ages now, but he realizes quickly that no amount of imagination could ever compare to the real thing. Potter kisses with his whole body, draping himself over Draco and kissing deeply, slowly. It is a mind-numbing experience, and Draco nearly melts into liquid from the heat of Potter’s mouth.

Distracted, Draco barely registers Potter’s large hands on him, divesting him of his robe with measured care. His hands trail down Draco’s skin, feeling the warmth of Draco’s body through the thin fabric before reaching the knot of his robe and tugging it. His robe falls open easily, the chiffon sliding off of his skin like water and leaving his whole body on display for Potter.

Potter pulls away to stare, appreciation shining in his eyes. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

A nervous laugh spills out of Draco’s lips, and he runs a hand against just one of the scars that cuts across his chest. Potter’s gaze softens then, eyes roaming over Draco’s chest. It has been years since the incident during sixth year, and Draco has done his best to minimize the physical damage. Even then, he takes to casting a glamour over them before spending time with any lovers, afraid of the questions that are likely to follow. With Potter, he knows there is no need to hide.

“I’m sorry—” Potter starts.

Draco reaches up to cup Potter’s jaw, strong and well defined, to shush him. “Don’t… Not now.”

Potter obeys, turning his head to press a kiss into Draco’s palm before lowering further. Draco emits a breathy sigh when Potter’s lips come into contact with his chest, kissing and dragging his lips over the scarred flesh. Draco relishes the feather light press of Potter’s lips, shifting his hand into Potter’s hair and keeping him there. It feels intimate, much too personal for whatever this is meant to be, and yet Draco does not stop him.

Potter then moves to mouth at Draco’s nipples, drawing out a soft gasp. He starts out first in swirling the tip of his tongue around the nub, just barely touching it and sending shocks of pleasure to Draco’s groin. The sensation is doubled further when the chapped skin of Potter’s lips catch onto the sensitive nub, just before he closes his mouth entirely around it. Draco lets out a soft cry, arching up into Potter’s mouth. From within his mouth, Potter uses his tongue to flick at Draco’s nipple, arousal now spreading throughout Draco’s body and setting his nerves alight.

Draco only relaxes back into his mattress when Potter moves on, descending all the way to Draco’s pelvis where he presses a chaste kiss to the clean skin there. Draco’s cock is fully erect now, curving up against his stomach and being woefully ignored by Potter. It has been a long time since Draco had last been intimate with anyone, and an even longer time since he has had such an attentive lover. Potter, however, is already better than anything he has ever experienced before. And Draco hasn’t even seen his cock yet.

“Turn over for me,” Potter orders.

Draco nods before shifting onto his stomach. As he does so, Potter takes off his robe completely, discarding it onto the floor. Draco nearly tells him off for it, wanting to scold him for being so uncouth as to let his chiffon robe simply fall to the floor like that, but then Potter is hefting Draco’s hips up. Potter doesn’t stop there, thick fingers digging into the soft flesh of Draco’s thighs as he spreads him wide. The position is entirely revealing, and humiliation burns in the pit of Draco’s stomach as he displays his arse for Potter.

For a moment, Potter does nothing. Draco squirms from his position, feeling the heat of Potter’s gaze prickling against his skin. He does not move any further, however, keeping his head resting against his arms and his back arched, arse clenching in anticipation of what Potter is to do to him.

“I swear, Malfoy, you have just the prettiest little hole I’ve ever seen,” Potter says, admiration evident in his voice. Draco shivers when he feels the tip of Potter’s finger run up between his cheeks.

“Oh, seen a lot of those, have you?” Draco immediately regrets his words, mentally slapping himself. Those are not words you say to the man who is about to eat your arse out!

Thankfully, Potter merely laughs, continuing in his perusal of Draco’s arse. Draco bites his lip when the pad of Potter’s thumb reaches his hole, merely ghosting over it. With a whine, Draco pushes his hips back into the touch, proffering his arse up even more. Then, Draco feels it. There is a hot breath against him as Potter pries his cheeks apart to fully expose his hole, and then, Potter gives him one slow lick.

Draco moans low at the sensation of warmth and wet against him, Potter’s tongue licking all the way up. Potter drags his tongue back down to lick at Draco’s hole, only licking and never penetrating. Draco is panting hard already, thighs trembling as Potter douses his entrance with attention, swirling his tongue around the furled skin. With each lick, Draco can feel himself loosening, relaxing and opening to Potter’s ministrations.

He cries out when Potter fastens his mouth around his hole and sucks. His hands scrabble to find anything to hold onto, fingers curling into his silk sheets in an attempt to keep himself grounded. Potter’s mouth is magic on him, setting off each and every nerve at his opening. Draco is allowed a moment of rest when Potter’s mouth pulls away, but only for a second before Potter returns, this time pushing his tongue past the tight ring of muscle.

“Ohh,” Draco gasps out, back arching even further. “Oh my god, yes!”

He presses his face into the mattress, unable to handle just how good Potter is making him feel at the moment. His body moves on its own, pushing back into Potter, doing everything he can to keep that wet muscle inside him. He clenches around Potter’s tongue, toes curling when he feels Potter moan around him. Potter continues to eat him out, clearly enjoying the act just as much as Draco.

Just when Draco feels as though he might burst, Potter pulls away. “Lube?”

Draco feels feverish, panting hotly against his bedsheets. It is embarrassing how close Draco had been to coming just then, solely from Potter’s tongue. He lets out a ragged breath, struggling to compose himself after such a spectacular rim job. If Potter was that skilled with his tongue, Draco can only imagine what depths Potter’s talents extend to.

“Um. Nightstand.”

Potter reaches over then to Draco’s right, and Draco considers this to be his chance. He shifts himself, angling his body and head in order to watch, desperate for another look at Potter’s body. He is unaware of the pleased hum that comes from him at the sight of Potter’s body, strong and full of well-sculpted muscles. The pale moonlight casts shadows on the hard planes of his chest, adding to the vision of dark hair scattered along his chest.

His eyes travel lower, following the smattering of hair as it tapers over his lower abdomen, all the way until he finally reaches the destination of his choice. Draco barely notices when Potter pours a gratuitous amount of lube onto his fingers, his attention completely zeroed in on Potter’s crotch now.

It does not come as a surprise to Draco that Potter is bloody massive. Enormous, gigantic, monstrous—Draco cannot settle for one word only. Judging from the size of the damn thing, Draco estimates that Potter is eight inches, or at least something near that. In addition to his impressive length, Potter is also impossibly thick. Draco had not known that any such girth was even possible to achieve.

He hopes his tone does not betray his very real concern when he asks, “Potter, will that even fit?” He doesn’t bother to pretend that he has not been ogling the third leg.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Potter tuts. Without warning, he slides two fingers into Draco. Draco’s body jerks at the sudden intrusion, but he does not pull away, instead bracing himself against his bed.

“N-Not a quitter,” Draco insists, panting even harder now. “We Slytherins pride ourselves on our ambition, you know.”

Potter is steadily pumping his fingers in and out of Draco now. “Don’t worry, I’ll stretch you good.”

The burn intensifies when Potter adds a third finger, and Draco has to bite on his lip to keep any other sounds from coming out. True to his word, Potter takes his time in stretching Draco out, drawing his fingers in and out in a slow slide. The tips of his fingers brush briefly against Draco’s prostate, sending electric shocks up his spine.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Draco hisses. He rocks back against Potter’s fingers, easily fucking himself on the digits now.

Potter stills his movements then, but does not pull his fingers out. “Think you can take me now?” he asks. Draco nods, and Potter slowly retracts his hand. “I didn’t hear you.”

Draco grits his teeth. While Potter is now undeniably attractive, he is still very much a git. “Yes, I… You can get in now.”

He cringes when Potter snorts in response. “Oh, how sexy. I love this dirty talk, Malfoy.”

Draco’s resulting grumbles break off into a gasp as Potter pushes forward slowly, the blunt head of his cock breaching Draco’s entrance. Potter is much wider than three fingers, and Draco spreads his legs in a futile effort as Potter continues to push in slowly. Draco lets out a soft cry, his whole body shaking from the effort of keeping upright as he dutifully takes as much of Potter’s length as he can.

“Do you need me to stop?” Potter asks. He is still moving at a snail’s pace, and Draco wonders just if Potter’s prick ever fucking ends.

“No, no.” Draco shakes his head quickly. “Don’t you dare, Potter.”

Potter doesn’t pull out, but he doesn’t move either. Draco fights to regain control of his breathing before heaving himself up onto his hands and pushing back. As quickly as he can, he takes on the rest of Potter’s length, feeling every inch of Potter’s cock as he presses his hips back. He tries to ease the stretch by rolling his hips, his lower back now aching as he continues on in his endeavor.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Malfoy—” Potter breathes out, breaking off into a choked moan. His hands move to Draco’s hips, clutching tightly.

It feels like forever until Draco’s arse meets Potter’s pelvis. The entire time, Potter merely holds onto Draco’s waist, dutifully keeping his own hips still while Draco works his cock. At some points, when Draco felt as though he could not take anymore, he was forced to simply rock back and forth before taking another inch. Finally, Potter is fully sheathed, his entire cock encased within Draco’s tight heat. Exhausted from the effort, Draco simply flops back down onto his chest, breathing laboured and arse still impaled onto Potter’s cock.

“Move, please,” Draco requests, no longer having the energy to do much else.

Potter obeys eagerly, dragging his cock out slowly before pushing back in. The burn is absolutely delicious, no longer searing with each steady thrust of Potter’s cock. Potter is grunting from above Draco with each measured roll of his hips, working to concentrate on keeping his even pace. It feels incredible, and Draco can feel himself opening up even further, finally adjusting to Potter’s girth.

“Potter,” Draco says then. He reaches back blindly, grabbing onto what he believes to be a well-muscled thigh. “I think I’ll kill you if you don’t fuck me into the mattress right now.”

“I think I got it, princess,” Potter huffs out.

Draco has no time to fixate on the reaction that nickname elicits from him as Potter thrusts his hips harshly, making Draco cry out as his cock hits deep within him. It takes little effort for Potter to up the pace then, grip tightening on Draco’s hips as he begins to pound into him with fervor. Draco can only lie there, taking each and every inch of Potter’s cock as he fucks into him ruthlessly.

Draco does not bother to stop his litany of moans and whimpers, urging Potter on with barely coherent encouragement. Potter presses him down onto the mattress, covering his body with his own and never stopping in his relentless pace. With this new angle, Potter’s cock rams into Draco’s prostate repeatedly, his thick and long cock dragging over the bundle of nerves with each thrust.

“Yes, fuck me!” Draco yells out, the movement of his hips now frantic to meet Potter thrusts. “God, harder, please!”

The feel of cool silk sheets against his hot cock is heavenly, and he knows he is close. Draco alternates in pressing back against Potter and humping the mattress, growing more and more desperate for his release as the seconds pass. Potter continues to ravage him, hips slamming into Draco’s arse and filling the room with the sounds of skin on skin.

“Potter, fuck, I’m gonna—Oh, fuck!” Draco curses just as his orgasm hits. His whole body seizes up, abdomen tightening as he spills his release onto the sheets beneath him.

Potter only continues to fuck him, sending him into a bout of overstimulation as he is milked of his release with every thrust against his spot. Once Draco’s orgasm has ended, Potter follows in suit, coming with a shout and spilling deep within Draco. Once again, Draco merely lies there, allowing Potter to use his body as he pleases.

Potter pulls out and Draco winces at the feeling of wetness that comes from his arse, the warm mixture of lube and Potter’s seed trailing out of him and down his sensitive skin. The bed dips as Potter rolls off and over Draco, settling into the soft mattress and breathing heavily from exertion. After gathering his breath, Draco turns then to face Potter.

For a moment, all he does is stare, afraid to touch and dispel the image before him. The moon’s beams cast an ethereal effect on Potter’s being, his usually warm tones dulled considerably and making him look like an apparition. Because that is what Potter is, a phantom of Draco’s desires, the culmination of a year’s worth of longing.

The atmosphere is displaced when Potter blinks his eyes open, long lashes hooded over verdant eyes. It gives Draco the courage to reach out to him then, fingers threading through the surprisingly soft hair on Potter’s chest. Mustering what little energy he has after their recent rigorous activities, Draco leans forward to kiss Potter deeply, slotting their lips together.

Potter tilts his head up, offering his mouth up to Draco. A warm hand skates along Draco’s bare skin before settling on his arse, Potter’s grip possessive as he tugs Draco closer into him. Draco goes with ease, his own palm sliding up Potter’s sweaty chest to clutch at his shoulder. When they pull away, Potter is already looking at him, eyes gleaming in the dim of the room.

Draco smiles, uncaring of how smitten he must look in the moment. “Is it true that animagi retain some of the traits of the animal they can turn into?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” Potter admits. He lifts a hand to stroke Draco's golden hair, eyes fixated on his blond locks, and Draco is briefly reminded of a niffler’s penchant for shiny things. “Why?”

“Well, I may have read once about the stamina of a niffler…”

“We can test that theory out right now,” Potter says with a grin. Draco can only return the smile as Potter rolls on top of him again, smothering him in another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ! hope you're all staying safe indoors :)


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